


Please Be Kind, Rewind

by Lucifuge5



Category: Canadian Six Degrees
Genre: Canadian RPS, M/M, c6d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-26
Updated: 2010-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:37:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucifuge5/pseuds/Lucifuge5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hugh Dillon gets an interesting offer in L.A.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Be Kind, Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the C6D Porn Tag. Um, sorry guys, but this turned out more cracky and less pornoriffic than I originally expected. A tip of the hat to Waltzforanight for Hugh info. Disclaimer: This here story is totally made up.

**WEDNESDAY, TWELVE-FOURTEEN P.M. (PST)**

Hugh stretches his arms as if he's reaching out for the headboard. There is a ghost of a hangover in his head, but it's okay. He is hedonistically comfortable as his naked body rubs against the hotel's softer than velvet bed sheets.

No, scratch that.

His body is actually doing some kind of jerky undulation whenever someone, who is lying between his legs, nibbles on his inner thigh. Hugh groans in satisfaction as the bites turn slightly vicious, leaving a row of tingle-stings on his tender skin. His hips thrust upward once he feels the ghost of a mouth move closer to his cock. Mere seconds later, a wicked tongue flicks against the underside of the crown, prompting him to finally open his eyes. Whoever is down there, they really know what they are doing. His cock is hard, waiting for that expert mouth to swallow it down to the root.

Mind still a little fuzzy with sleep and languid with the flush of pleasure, he lifts the bed covers and takes at peek. A gasp escapes his lips when he sees Paul Gross slide his mouth (with an edge of teeth even) alongside the length of Hugh's cock.

The fuck?

 

**FIVE DAYS EARLIER**

"Dude, the fuck am I going to L.A. for? I'm on vacation, remember?" Hugh lights up his umpteenth cigarette, squinting into the horizon as the sun begins its descent. Shooting for both _Durham_ and _Flashpoint_ will begin soon enough. Still, despite being as much of a workaholic as Rennie, he's actually okay with this downtime period. Well, most days he is.

Today, for example, is a great day. There's songwriting for the greater part of the morning and flipping through the first two _Durham_ scripts for the upcoming season in the afternoon. Things are peachy-keen until his agent calls him to pimp him a guest role in _Eastwick_. He runs his free hand over his naked scalp, enjoying the rasp of stubble against his callused fingers.

In the meantime, his agent keeps throwing out words like "opportunity" and "great exposure to the American market". Like he's a goddamn circus freak attraction or something. It's not until his agent mentions that Paul Gross asked for him specifically that Hugh snorts an "OK, just send me the e-ticket info and the script and I'm good to go" before hanging up. He's never met Gross, not even when Rennie was in that Mountie show. But now, he's curious and a little bored from not working. He stubs the cigarette on the silver ashtray and picks up his guitar, his hands itching to play some chords. Hell-A, here we come.

 

**ONE DAY EARLIER**

Sitting in the airport lounge, Hugh finds himself unable to keep still. He's wearing a pair of his least ratty jeans and a vintage Headstones t-shirt underneath his black jacket. His agent has told him to wear something "business casual"--whatever **that** means. Going to L.A. has always made him feel slightly off. L.A. is where everywhere becomes topsy-turvy because words and meanings are scrambled. He closes his eyes and thinks of a tornado made out of multi-syllabic phrases swirling around for a century or two.

Standing by the window, watching planes take off and land, he taps his fingers against his guitar case, realizing how much he hates the whole Hollywood mindfuck.

 

**FIFTEEN HOURS EARLIER**

The guy behind the hotel's front desk keeps giving him these furtive, kind of sideways looks when he checks in. Like he's tyring to decided whether or not Hugh is famous and if so, what for. Here in L.A. he's low enough in the celebrity totem pole to go under most people's radar. On the other hand, between the script in his left hand and the guitar case slung across his back, he's sure there's some kind of moody _artiste_ vibe he could be giving off. The whole thing is amusing to the point that he doesn't give the guy a hard time when he picks up the key to his suite and heads to the elevators.

His cellphone rings as soon as he walks through the door. "'lo? Hugh speaking."

A scratchy baritone voice, one that makes Hugh think of cowboys, goes from his ear canal straight to his cock. "Hugh? Paul here. Listen, I know you just got in, but I was wondering if we could meet at your hotel to discuss the script? My schedules is, well, it is absolutely _grotesque_ for the next few days. I wouldn't want you to have dragged your punky ass down here for nothing."

Hugh's face grows hot, for it almost sounds like Paul is purring to him. "Sure. I'm at the--" he looks at his key card. "At the Starlight on Sunset Boulevard. Meet you in the lobby?"

"I'll be there in thirty."

His phone goes click and he looks at it. Hugh is feeling all kinds of flippety-flopping in his stomach just from the reverb of Paul's voice. He shakes his head and rummages through his fruit basket for something to snack on before heading downstairs.

 

**FOURTEEN HOURS EARLIER**

Hugh looks around the lobby and wonders how anyone could ever feel comfortable here. It feels like he's in some kind of space disco or something. The lights are low and there is some bop-bop-bop electrocrap coming at him from a million hidden speakers.

He's wondering whether he has any time to go outside and get a few nicotine puffs in his system--because God forbid he tried to light a ciggie anywhere in L.A. ever again--when no one other than Mr. Canada himself walks in. He's wearing jeans, cowboys boots and one of the craziest shirts Hugh's ever seen since he quit drugs for good.

"Hugh! A pleasure to meet you! How was your flight?" Paul is shaking his hand like they are friends from way, way back. Usually, Hugh's first instinct would be to step back, being natural suspicious of those "hey, how you doin'" type of people. This time around, however, he is responding to Paul's camaraderie at an almost unconscious level and not regretting it one bit.

"How about we sit down and discuss things, hmm?" Paul's tongue glides over his lower lip and Hugh's eyes can't help but track its movements before nodding.

They make their way into one of the restaurants in the hotel--the only one that is open this late. It's a big room with even lower lighting than back in the lobby and the kind of music that would never play in an indie film. The hostess, a tall wisp of a woman, apologizes profusely in between telling them that the only seat available is in a booth.

Paul gives her what Hugh would call a medium-wattage smile: friendly enough to keep the hostess from freaking out, but with a trace of importance to keep the mood business-lite.

Hugh doesn't get the apology at first, eyes wandering through the place, until he notices that the booths are set up in such a way as to make them incredibly intimate, if not romantic.

Paul's eyebrows jump up and his face acquires a face of amicable innocence. He leans toward Hugh. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

He shakes his head, a side smile on his face. Some of Paul's easy-going charm might be rubbing off because the next words out of Hugh's mouth are "Let's do it."

The hostess looks at both of them, Hugh closes his eyes while shaking his head and Paul guffaws.

They spend the next thirty minutes talking about the Canadian vs. the American industries as they wait for their entrees. Hugh talks about _Durham_, about the thrill he gets from being around all those creative women, about feeling like he's learning something every time he walks into the set. Paul is just as much of a lively talker, flinging his hands to and fro as he he speaks about the bastardization of certain Canadian media and the importance of not deconstructing language out of sheer laziness.

Everything about Paul makes Hugh think of one word: kinetic.

"Hey." He glances at Paul's iceberg blue eyes before picking up his steak knife. "You know, it's funny how we've never worked together. I mean, with you being in every single Canadian project since the 70s and all."

"Well, not everything. The _Hard Core Logo_ script never made its way to me." And at this, Paul motherfucking _blushes_ like someone had just told him that he makes the world's best cup of coffee.

Hugh tries imagine a scraggly, fucked up version of Paul. One that looks haunted like John or is aloof like Bucky Haight. "Nah, it wouldn't have worked. You're too pretty to come off as a member of the punk rock movement."

Paul's eyes light up. "Oh, but I can be bad." He leans on his forearms, his voice lowers. "Real bad. Some people lack imagination, that all."

It should have sound cheesy, but those words accompanied by Paul's cocky smile ignite a clever mix of annoyance and excitement in Hugh. The not-quite-oblique flirting is getting to him and he decides to play along. "Oh, yeah? Call me crazy, but I have a hard time thinking of you being anywhere near a raucous state of mind."

Paul tugs an ear. "Is that so? I thought you would be the last person to make assumptions."

Hugh cocks his head to the side with a sharp smile on his lips, barely conscious that it's an echo of Joe Dick. There hasn't been much subtly in Paul's words. It's like he's dipping his toes in the pool, making sure the water's fine. Hugh wonders what kind of trouble lies ahead. "Ever heard of putting the cart in front of the horse?"

Paul calls the waiter over and asks for a bottle of tequila. "All the fucking time."

 

**TEN HOURS EARLIER**

"So, about this part." Hugh squints at the swaying elevator panel before pressing the number he thinks his room is at. Fucking Paul and his unexpected love for Gran Patron Platinum.

"Hmm?" Paul is tapping his toes along with the music, his whole body relaxed.

Hugh make a face. "Mr. Fist? Really?"

Paul straightens up and shakes his hands in front of Hugh's face. It's a little annoying. "No, no, no. You're not seeing the big picture. Mr. Fist is a nod to his real name."

"Which is?"

The bell rings and they step out of the elevator car. Hugh is not quite falling-on-his-ass drunk, but it takes him a couple of seconds to figure out where is his suite. The companionable heat he feels on his right side comes from Paul, who stays in step with him.

"His real name is Mephistopheles. Just imagine: he shows up in the last five minutes of the season finale asking some random person about Darryl's home address. Then, the screen goes black and credits roll. People will go who the hell is this guy? Why is he looking for Darryl? It'll be fucking brilliant."

Hugh stops trying to open the door and frowns at Paul. "So the devil is in Eastwick looking for . . . the devil?" He pushes the door in and walks through until he reaches the living room.

"Not exactly. He is--"Paul stops. "This is nice. Maybe I should look into switching agents." He blinks a few times. "So where is it?"

Hugh points at the guitar case by the bedroom door as he shrugs off his jacket. "She's over there. I'm going to hit the can." He goes to the guest's bathroom, does his business and is in the middle of drying his hands when he hears Paul singing that damn Anne Murray song. It makes him giddy.

Walking back into the living room, he's charmed by the sight of a barefooted Paul strumming the guitar as his voice climbs toward the climax of the song. He's overwhelmed with an easy lust as he approaches the still-singing Paul.

"_Snowbird_." Hugh places his hands on his hips in classic bad cop stance. He squints hard. "Really?

Paul is giving him a loop-sided smile in response. "I had one of my PAs Google you. For some strange reason, that song kept popping up next to your name."

"Fucker."

"Hopefully," Paul deadpans.

Hugh grunts his laugh before picking up the guitar from Paul's hands. "How about we leave the dame out of this?"

He goes down on his knees, grateful for the thick carpet. It takes him a little bit of effort not to pounce on Paul as soon as he's in between Paul's spread legs, but he wants to take his time. He slides both hands on Paul thighs until they meet on top of the denim-covered bulge in the middle.

Paul hisses when Hugh presses down for a breath before skimming upward. Grabbing somewhere along Paul's shirt, he pulls Paul toward him and plants one of the nastiest kisses he's ever given to anyone in his life.

That Paul responds in kind lets him and his cock know that things are just getting started.


End file.
